A Trace of Character
by Werrf
Summary: On Haven during the first war, an old memory will change the course of a woman's life...


"_**News **__**from **__**the **__**Battlefront**__**!**_

"_**The **__**Office **__**of **__**Public **__**Information **__**has **__**released **__**the **__**official **__**account **__**of **__**the **__**great **__**victory **__**at **__**the **__**Battle **__**of **__**Seabring**__**! **__**The **__**valiant **__**Defenders **__**of **__**the **__**People **__**stood **__**fast **__**in **__**the **__**face **__**of **__**overwhelming **__**Imperialist **__**Manticoran **__**forces **__**in **__**the **__**system **__**of **__**Seabring**__**. **__**Despite **__**being **__**heavily **__**outnumbered **__**by **__**their **__**treacherous **__**opponents**__**, **__**the **__**Peoples **__**defenders **__**held **__**the **__**system **__**and **__**inflicted **__**massive **__**Damage **__**on **__**their **__**Imperialist **__**foes**__**! **__**Hero **__**of **__**the **__**People, Citizen **__**Admiral **__**Thomas **__**Theisman**__**..."**_

Cherie DuPois stared mournfully into her drink as the HD continued blaring on about yet another Great and Famous Victory. That was all you ever heard about from Public Information - Great and Famous Victories getting steadily closer and closer to the home system. And how strange that you never heard the same admiral's name twice.

Well, sometimes you did - normally the second time was at their state funeral.

"Mmmm-mm!" Helena crowed next to her. "Admiral Yummy! Tell you what, if he ever gets tired _defending_ the People, he could sure warm up _my_ person!"

"Give it a rest, girl," Cherie muttered, still staring morosely into her drink. "Like an admiral's gonna look at Dolist trash like..."

She glanced up at the bar's HD as she spoke anyway. Helena often had good taste, and...

_It __couldn__'__t __be__._

The face that stared out of the HD set at her was at once familiar and strange. Older, certainly, but she knew that face...

"_C__'__mon__, __Chez__, __don__'__t __be __a __square__! __Everyone__'__s __doin__' __it__, __don__'__t __wanna __be __left __out __do __ya__?"_

She'd been drunk at the time, of course - what else was there to do as a Dolist besides get drunk and party? There was no need to work, so why not have a little fun?

_**"Citizen** **Admiral **__**Theisman **__**distinguished **__**himself **__**early **__**in **__**the **__**war **__**when **__**his **__**Valiant **__**Actions **__**saved **__**his **__**squadron **__**from **__**an **__**ambush **__**by **__**superior **__**Manticoran **__**forces**__**, **__**despite **__**the **__**treasonous **__**incompetence **__**of **__**disgraced **__**Commodore **__**Reichman**__**..."**_

She'd been drunk and fifteen - the two terms were often synonymous on the Dole - and her parents hadn't got her a contraceptive implant yet, because everyone knew she was too young to be having sex anyway. And he was older and exotic, so strong and masculine and going off to the Navy, and this might be the last time she would ever see him. So she said yes.

It had been...nice, as far as she could remember. She couldn't remember much any more - it had been so long ago. And just as she had suspected, she had never seen him again, but she remembered his face.

_**"Citizen Admiral **__**Theisman **__**is **__**still **__**under **__**medical **__**care **__**for **__**grievous **__**injuries sustained in glorious battle **__**and **__**was **__**unavailable **__**for **__**comment**__**, **__**but **__**Citizen **__**Commissioner **__**Denis **__**LePic**__**, Citizen **__**Admiral **__**Theisman**__**'**__**s **__**personal **__**political **__**advisor**__**, **__**issued **__**the **__**following **__**statement**__**..."**_

* * *

Her grandmother had wept at the news that she was pregnant. The whole family were on the Dole, of course, but Grandmere was old enough to remember when working for a living meant something, and she had pinned her hopes on Cherie getting an education and a job.

"You're the clever one!" she had cried, tears running down her wrinkled, pre-prolong face. "You were to be our hope!"

Cherie simply sat in a cheap plastic chair, running her hand lightly over her flat belly, looking for the life within. Wasn't she supposed to feel something?

"It's not that bad, mama," her mother had said, trying to calm the old woman. "We can tube it, there are wonderful state creches to raise a child these days, it's not like..."

"No," Cherie said without looking up. Her family turned to stare at her as she spoke.

"Nobody's taking my baby from me," she said. "She's mine."

"Cher, be sensible," her mother cooed, pulling a chair of her own over next to her and sliding an arm across her shoulders. "You're still in school, you're going to be far too busy to care for a child..."

"School is useless," she pouted. "I never learn anything unless I go out and find it for myself! This baby...she's _mine_, you understand?"

The shouts and tears continued for hours.

* * *

Cherie let out a weary sigh and collapsed into a chair, leaving the final box of her possessions to unpack later. One hand idly caressed the steadily-growing bump in her belly and she stared around at the walls of her apartment in the newly-built DuQuesne Tower. It was larger than she would normally have rated as an unmarried, unattached teenager running away from home, and lavishly appointed with a wall-mounted HD, a full kitchen, even a window. None of her friends had anything as nice as this, but then it wouldn't be hers alone for long.

Her parents weren't here. They had wept and stormed and shouted when she said she was leaving, but they couldn't stop her, not any more. Maybe they would visit. Eventually. Until then, she just had to find some new friends here in the Tower - maybe she'd try tennis again, there was a tennis court on this floor somewhere - and...

Something quivered in her stomach. She pushed herself to her feet to go the kitchen for a snack, then stopped.

She wasn't hungry. There was just something moving inside her.

She stood for a long while as the sun sank outside her window, simply marveling at the life in her belly.

* * *

_"Bright colours will hold a baby's attention much better than pastels, and will help the child to focus"_, the board said. _"Therefore make sure the parents clothes are brightly coloured to help the child bond."_

Cherie tapped some notes.

_"Babies are naturally attracted to bright colours, and also to their parents. Therefore dress the parents in dull-coloured clothes and make everything else bright, to encourage the child to explore its environment."_

Cherie tapped some more notes and stared at them both, nibbling on the end of her stylus as she tried to make sense of the maze of information.

Her son kicked away at the side of her womb, and she reached down to pat her engorged abdomen absentmindedly. "There, there," she murmured. "Did you want some music?"

_("Music can be clearly heard in the womb. Early and frequent exposure to appropriate musical styles can be important to later development.")_

She tapped a few buttons on her memo pad to start up the playlist she had, on expert advice, compiled for her baby. Jarring sounds of music from a dozen different styles began to play, but the experts all had different suggestions, so she had tried her best to combine them all together.

It wasn't how she had expected to be spending her sixteenth birthday, but it didn't matter. She would give her baby the childhood of dreams. He was worth that.

* * *

The fresh pillow was cool, crisp and comfortable under her head and she let herself lie back against it. Sweat was cool on her brow even in the warm, dimly lit room, and her body flooded with endorphins that pushed away any pain as she looked down at the tiny form on her breast.

He stared up at her, silent and uncrying, his deep, pale-blue eyes unfocused as he watched her. She sniffed back a tear and cradled her son against her, and all the pain, all the work and waiting was worth it for him.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you," she whispered to him. "I promise I'll keep you safe.

* * *

She clambered her way up out of a dream of searching for her baby, following his cries but unable to reach him, to realise the crying was real. She groaned against the pain of her own over-worked body and pulled herself up in bed.

"Lights," she mumbled, glancing at the chrono. An hour. She'd slept for an hour.

She reached into the basket by her bed and pulled her son out. The crying slowed as she held him, but it didn't stop until she pulled aside her night shirt and let him latch on to her breast. With a contented gurgle he began to suckle, and she just sat in bed, rocking back and forth, her eyes drooping closed as he stared up at the heart and centre of his world.

* * *

The apartment stank. The bedclothes stank. Her favourite shirt stank.

The shirt probably stank because it was covered with baby poo, but it was all part of the same thing, really.

She dialed the apartment's air return up to its highest setting, but it didn't help very much - not when the smell of baby was sinking into every piece of fabric in the whole place.

Her legs shook as she hauled herself back to her feet. Aching arms and trembling hands began collecting the stained sheets and clothes as hunger gnawed at her belly. When had she last eaten?

From the basket by the bed, her son watched her, his eyes moving slowly to follow every move she made.

* * *

_"Help!"_ she typed into the parenting board's screen. _"I'm sixteen, just had a baby, and now he won't stop throwing up! What should I DO?!"_

The responses were not encouraging.

_"Shouldnt hav had sex if ur not reddy for teh responibilty!"_

_"State Creches will take any child up to the age of twelve if necessary."_

_"This is why teenage Dolists should have free access to good quality contraceptives!"_

Another spurt of vomit trailed down her back, and the baby wailed out his misery.

* * *

"I went by the President Richard Harris on my way over here," her mother said, avoiding Cherie's eyes while bouncing her grandson on her knee. "Such a lovely place - the children were all lined up outside together, reciting the national anthem for anyone who went past. So beautiful to hear all those children working together, it really was."

Cherie ignored her, and focused on shoving the accumulated dishes from her sink into the steriliser. It was nice to have someone around to help look after the baby, admittedly. It just would have been nice if she could rest sometimes as well.

"...and they had such a lovely playground as well, all very new equipment and toys. Believe me, that's a place leaders are made!"

Her eyes drooped as she worked methodically, moving from sink to steriliser, sink to steriliser...she started to half-dream her way through the job, her eyes drooping lower.

"Oh! Cher, you're bleeding!"

She stared at her hand. How had she managed to grab a kitchen vibro knife by the blade? Good thing it wasn't turned on...

The blood dripped steadily onto the kitchen tiles, and mother and son both watched it.

* * *

His eyes were closed when she handed him over. He slept through the whole thing, a warm, solid weight in a bundle of blankets. The nurse made reassuring noises, murmuring things like "for the best," and "right choice". She watched his face, desperately begging him to open those eyes one more time, but he slept on.

With one shaking hand, she tucked a small holocube of herself into the blankets before she turned away and let her son be taken into President Richard Harris State Home for Child Development. She went home and sobbed herself to sleep in the empty apartment.

The next morning she was back at the creche, screaming at the blank walls to give her back her baby, but nobody came. She hoped he could hear her.

She came again the next day, and the next.

On the fourth day, the Mental Hygiene Police arrived, to help her adjust to the loss. Her shoulder still ached on cold days.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his own unblinking, unfocused gaze, staring up at her.

* * *

She looked back up at the HD, at Citizen Admiral Theisman's eyes.

_**"**__**You **__**too **__**can **__**do **__**your **__**part**__**, **__**like **__**the **__**Gallant **__**Citizen **__**Admiral **__**Theisman**__**! **__**Enlist **__**in **__**the **__**People**__**'**__**s **__**Navy **__**Today**__**!"**_

Cherie tossed back her drink, letting the hot liquor burn down her throat,and stood.

"Come on," she said to Helena. "We're gonna go enlist."

* * *

The ground shook beneath the feet of Admiral Theisman, Commanding Officer, Capital Fleet, Peoples Navy as he watched the sweat-covered StateSec thug coolly. The long-barreled military pulser in the thug's hand wobbled slightly, but never quite far enough for Theisman to try moving.

"Step aside, Private," he said, allowing a trace of his command voice to show. The thug didn't seem impressed.

"Stop...stop right there, Citizen Admiral," he said, his wild eyes darting around for support. "You're under arrest for...for..."

"'For treason against the people', I think is what you're after," Theisman finished for him. "And if it's all the same to you, you can stick with plain 'Admiral Theisman'."

They weren't bad last words, really. He hoped they might get recorded somewhere for posterity, especially if Denis managed to pull this off without him. The marines should still be moving in on Saint-Just's office, even if he could not be with them.

It wasn't what he'd hoped, but it would have to be enough. He stepped forward.

The pulser whined. And at the same moment, a coal-black arm shoved itself between him and the shooter.

A battle armoured figure, a Marine sergeant judging from the insignia stencilled on the suit, placed itself squarely between him and the thug. Huge gorilla hands reached out and ripped the pulser from the man's hands, then a single punch from a fist that could crumple steel slammed into his chest and sent him flying.

Theisman tried to step forward again, but the figure growled and shoved him behind an overturned desk with one hand as an entire squad of StateSec troopers rounded a corner. Pulsers whined, but they were like popguns against the battle-steel armour, and the sergeant calmly waded into the fray. Fists flew left and right as the marine ripped the squad apart like an angered mother bear. Several of them were no longer connected to bodies.

It took several ghastly seconds before the corridor was clear, and the marine walked back to where Theisman waited. Her armour's visor was up now, and he could see her face as she glared at him.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" she yelled. "You can't wander around Committee headquarters on your own like this!"

"Thank you for your assistance Sergeant...DuPois," Theisman replied with a slight smile, straightening his uniform tunic. "I was with a squad of marines, but we got separated. Do you have...?"

"My squad's upstairs," she grunted. "Waiting for you. Where do you need to get to?"

"I'll be paying a visit to Chairman Saint-Just," he replied. "Would you care to accompany me?"

She grunted, checked the power level of her pulse rifle, then nodded jerkily.

"I've got your back, Admiral," she said. "I won't let ANYONE hurt you."


End file.
